(no subject)

[substituteskull]

Three years since the outbreak and John Watson still doesn't know what to make of it. Like all doctors, he'd heeded the call of city and country as England did what all smart island nations did the moment the moment WHO released a statement that the virus had spread outside of America through international travel. It shut down completely. He'd not paid attention to the politics of it, hadn't bothered so much with the news. John had his work to do, people to treat, safety and quarantine to enforce. His world because St. Barts'.

At first, isolation seemed to work. Patriots were forced to stay outside of the relative safety of Great Britain as the airports and the Eurostar stations shut down. Ferries between the islands were discontinued.

The problem was that no one could isolate whatever it was causing humanity to change. The virus didn't seem to kill the host's brain, just every other part of their systems. A day post infection, the victim would become feverish. Two days later, they'd succumb. And after that...nothing short of dismemberment could stop them. It wasn't airbourne. And not in the blood either. Just the saliva. John had never seen anything like it. The internet called it a zombie plague, but that wasn't quite right either.

It took six months for everyone worldwide to realize that quarantine wouldn't help. Infections sprouted up for no discernible reason. People turned in the Underground, in shopping centres, on the playground. London, and the country, didn't stand a chance. The government fell overnight. Society followed.

And John just stayed on at St Barts'. He stopped trying to do the most good. And just attempted to survive.

It's not easy, even for an ex-soldier. There's no heading down to Tesco's any more. Ammo is impossible to come by. But if John, and the others holed up in St. Barts' still want to eat, someone has to go out. And that someone is almost always John.

Comments

[consulting_freak]

John would be right in his assumption that Sherlock's never bothered to touch himself like this. He'd tried it. Once. But that had been when he was fifteen years old and he became bored with it shortly after beginning and simply viewed erections as a minor irritation after that. Right now, it's much more interesting.

Sherlock lets John slip away from his embrace. His grip loosens, thinking that his friend might be moving like he'd asked him to. Into a position where Sherlock will be able to use his good arm to return some of these touches and find out things no one else knows about John's body.

"But," Sherlock starts as John begins his request. It goes uninterrupted, so he listens to what John has to say. It's difficult to think too much on speaking with John's hand stroking him.

"That's all... just watch?" Sherlock asks him, but he's uncertain. He wants to touch, too. There's so much vulnerability in succumbing to physical pleasure. Whether it's drugs or this, there's a certain amount of himself that he always keeps closed away and boxed deep down inside his Mind Palace in a locked room at the very bottom level. Showing John that makes him feel anxious. Doubly so if the pleasure will be going one way for now.

He trusts John implicitly.

A slow nod. It might be too dark to make it out. "All right. Fine. It's... it's fine," Sherlock tells him, rolling onto his back and kicking himself back so he can prop his neck up against his pillow against the headboard. "We'll do it your way this time."

[substituteskull]

John must admit that he's impressed with himself. There had been half a moment of doubt when he'd assumed Sherlock would simply leave but-- Sex, it seems, even for Sherlock, is a good motivator.

His former flatmate has spent thirty something years of his life without likely knowing what this is like and John is in the mood to treat him-- Not because he wants to necessarily, but because the process is going to be so different from the way he's been with anyone else.

Pantsless is a good look for Sherlock, John decides as he brings fire to the wick of the candle and drops beside his friend to run his fingers over his smooth chest to his navel. His mouth follows as John gets himself back into position on the bed.

A glance up tells him that yes, Sherlock is indeed watching him. Good. He plans on making this slow with his nose in Sherlock's pubic hair before he even brings his mouth into play. He can almost taste the groan when he does, though.

[consulting_freak]

Limping back to his room on a bum ankle with one sore shoulder, the other arm completely broken, and with an erection that would undoubtedly become painful if unattended to doesn't seem like a pleasant alternative to letting John have his way. Even if he's discontent with not being able to have some direct control over his and John's experience.

Sherlock gets to once again prove that he has no body shame as John removes everything below the waist. He lifts his hips when he needs to in order to keep this going at a decent pace, but John seems to be more interested in teasing him than anything else.

"To be honest, John... I don't think I could get much more aroused than this," Sherlock tells his friend, reaching down with his good hand to touch the top of John's head. The hair's a bit shorter and a lot greyer than it had been when they'd lived with each other before. It feels coarse and wiry as all grey hair tends to feel, but he doesn't mind. What he does mind is being teased so much. As pleasant as it is, Sherlock's not known for his patience.

After so much teasing, it takes quite a lot of willpower not to try and impale John's throat as soon as his friend takes a taste of him. Their moans are similar, but Sherlock's is a much lower register that sounds almost like a growl. "More, John."

[substituteskull]

It likely isn't fair to tease but John hadn't meant for it to seem like that. His interest is more selfish than it is selfless, his desire to see Sherlock undone outweighed by his need to savour and study. One never knows when the next day will end up being the last and should either of them fall tomorrow, John wants to know that he's had, and given, his best.

Then again, oral sex on men is not one of better talents. A few times here or there and plenty of fellatio on himself gives him more confidence than he ought to otherwise have. Luckily, Sherlock doesn't thrust upwards. There's no need to be induced to vomit!

John presses a hand to Sherlock's hip and with the other, provides the second half of Sherlock's length with stimulation his mouth will simply be unable to. He is eager at least in this act, though "good" isn't a word anyone knowing any better would use.

John gives in to direction. Sherlock wants more and John isn't going to drag it out any further. This is much faster than he'd assume they would go, but it feels right just the same.

He is trusting that Sherlock will warn him before orgasm, though. Perhaps they should have gone into this with a game plan?

[consulting_freak]

John has the advantage of being with a partner who literally doesn't know any better. John could be the most amazing practitioner of oral sex or he could be a complete dunce and Sherlock wouldn't know the difference. The sensations he's feeling right now are pleasant enough and a very good change from what little sensation he'd been getting from minor friction against his trousers.

"A little... less suction," Sherlock instructs, licking his lips to wet them. He's been doing the majority of his breathing through his mouth so it's only natural the air current would leave his lips and throat feeling dry.

The toes of his left foot dig into the bedclothes next to John's side as he tries very hard not to thrust against his friend's mouth. He's being too careful, so Sherlock assumes John's one of those unlucky people born with a sensitive gag reflex. (Too many overdoses and the forced vomiting those brought have left Sherlock with a rather weak one.)

"Rhythm, John." Sherlock could sit back and enjoy himself without complaint, but if he can't touch John, then he can at least give him verbal pointers. "Move your hand and your mouth at the same tempo and direction."

Sherlock might have already had an accidental release before getting his trousers off if it weren't for the ache in his arm grounding him. And if John follows his advice, it most likely wouldn't be very long before orgasm finds him anyway.

[substituteskull]

Stifling a laugh, John does as he's told. Now this is exactly what he wants. It's not that he enjoys being constantly corrected -- he isn't as masochistic as Mycroft might have once believed and all of his girlfriends at one point or another had wondered -- it's just that Sherlock is-- Sherlock is Sherlock. He is real. This is actually happening. John couldn't be more pleased.

Sherlock doesn't need experience to know what he likes and John is more than happy to oblige. He ignores the salty, bitter flavour beading on his tongue, the small emission can't be helped though it does signal that Sherlock is closing in to completion.

Less suction. More coordination. John's brows furrow as he works up Sherlock's shaft, ignoring the discomfort in his cheek from the skin stretching at his stitches.

[consulting_freak]

Now that John is giving him exactly what he asked for, Sherlock's starting to become a little more noisy. For now, it's mostly appreciative noises. Little things to let John know that what he's doing is feeling very good.

There's a moment just a few minutes into the experience that feels different. A little tug like his body is getting ready for something. All those little nerve impulses start to resonate faster and it leaves Sherlock's head tucked down toward his chest. "Oh God, John," Sherlock moans, moving his hand down to cup at John's cheek because he knows that if he keeps his hand on the top of John's head, he'll just pull the other man's face downward.

He bends both legs up, left leg twisting around John's shoulder and the right thigh rubbing against the back of his knuckles at the side of John's head. Yes, he thinks he's getting pretty close now, but he doesn't tell John in any words.

[substituteskull]

The touch of cool fingers to his burning face is distracting enough that John misses all of the physical cues to Sherlock's first journey over the edge of pleasure. He jerks back his head at the onslaught of thick not-quite liquid hitting the roof of his mouth, catches a jet across his nose and milks the remainder over his knuckles.

John's eyes stay focused on Sherlock's face, regardless of how loud he's certainly being, and stays with him through to the softening of his penis and into his refractory period.

He probably will want water or a breath mint in the near future, but smiles whenever Sherlock finds it in him to look up again.

Not too bad, he figures. He certainly feels proud of himself!

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock is by no means quiet when he reaches that final moment. Too much electricity and muscle contraction. Oxytocin overload and a dopamine chaser. It makes him writhe and press himself into John's mouth. As soon as he does, John's off of him, but the moment's already started and won't stop just because of that.

Eyes half-lidded, Sherlock watches John through the entirety of his orgasm. And for one moment that lasts maybe fifteen or twenty seconds in total, Sherlock's mind is blissfully blank. Nothing but him, John, and an overwhelming physical pleasure.

And when it's all over, he collapses back down into relaxation. It'll take him a moment to catch his breath. When he does, he'll look back down at his friend now lover. "Time for my practical?" Sherlock asks him, smirking a little bit. Maybe John will appreciate how good of a student Sherlock can be. Well, if he can figure out a way to hold himself up with his arms in the state they are.

[substituteskull]

It's much too late for these things, John thinks as he carefully fits himself to Sherlock in regards to that broken arm. It's much too late and now they both need another shower. He doesn't bother going for a breath freshener after all and instead settles a hand over Sherlock's hip and closes his eyes.

He's up first, his body refusing to sleep past sunrise, and groaning, aching, John watches Sherlock in his sleep for several long moments before he brushes back hacked at curls and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Evidently, they'd been loud last night. There's no sound proofing between the old offices and John groans as he hits the locker room. Josie, also there, at least decides to ask after his face instead of last night's entertainment.

"What got you, Doc?"

John touches the plaster over his cheek. "Just a disagreement with a fist," he explains. "It's all right." Josie winks at him and John just turns in a huff and rinses off the mess dried to his skin.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock's performance hadn't been the most graceful. At one point, he'd lost his balance when his right shoulder gave out, but it had lightened the mood instead of destroying it. And, eventually, Sherlock had been able to gather a fair amount of data about both his and John's likes and dislikes in regards to sexual stimuli.

If they'd been a decade younger and their situation less grim, perhaps they would have stayed up exploring each other for another hour or two. But, they had work to do in the morning and both men settled against each other to enjoy the post-sex biochemical bliss.

John had been able to fall asleep first. Sherlock's orgasm happening sooner in the night meant that his body had a chance to wake up afterwards. So, he lied there on his back with his good arm curled around his friend. Cuddling. It just seemed like the right thing to do after something like that.


Sherlock wakes the next morning to an empty bed and the reluctance to open his eyes. Not enough sleep. It takes him almost ten minutes to drag himself out of bed and into his trousers.

No one asks about Sherlock leaving John's bedroom that morning. He can tell by a few hastily averted glances that they all know what had happened the night before, but he can't seem to find it in him to be embarrassed or really care about that.

A few smiles and good mornings are exchanged (surprisingly not faked, even after their discussion. He's in a good mood) and he brings a change of clothes to the locker room for a morning shower.

Bill, at least for the moment, is nowhere to be seen. He doubts that luck will continue.

[substituteskull]

By that point, John's gone to get breakfast and returned to his room to change the sheets and change his plasters. He's in the middle of that, dabbing cream onto his sutures, when Sherlock returns. John must say he's taking a bit of time to glance a little more invitingly at Sherlock now, or at least, he's realizing it for what it is.

His own mood is much improved, certainly a great deal lighter, and he finishes up his bandaging, door left partially open, before he turns back to Sherlock.

"We should get the unpleasantness done with," he suggests. Right back into the fray with them. And it's so easy. John had forgotten just what it's like for that to happen, for the world to just click, and it makes him a little bit restless. "I brought you something to eat, which I'm relatively sure you'll ignore," he teases.

Sherlock can get dressed on his own, independently, but John is here to help should he require it.

"Unless your leg is still giving you trouble. I can get your samples for you, if need be."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock is on his way back to his own room when he notices that John's door is open, just a little bit. That's where his friend has gone. They must have missed each other along the way to take care of morning business. They've got more planning to do for the rest of the day, so a detour to drop in on his friend - lover? - is in order.

He doesn't knock before pushing John's door open the rest of the way. He steps in, lets the door fall partially closed behind him, then takes a look around at John's room.

He's still in a good mood, but it's also a thoughtful one. No formal greetings shared between them. Just a bit of business, but that's how it should be.

"Arm's better and leg's easy enough to work with," Sherlock tells him, realising after a few seconds that his gaze is lingering on his friend a bit too long. He turns around and makes an overly exaggerated point to look at the breakfast John's brought him. It's a cooling bowl of oat porridge sprinkled with soy protein flavoured like bacon. Made with powdered milk and water, most likely.

He doesn't find it very appetising, but he's feeling hungry, so he'll eat a few bites of it.

But first, he owes something to John from the night before. A certain request he hadn't fulfilled.

"There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed.
Some forever not for better.
Some have gone and some remain.
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall.
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all.

But of all these friends and lovers,
There is no one compares with you.
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new.
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before.
I know I'll often stop and think about them.
In my life I love you more."

[substituteskull]

Why bother with pleasantries when they never have before? Their machine works beautifully just the way it does and John wants for it to be no different...minus a few additions here and there. He's about to tell Sherlock to let him rewrap his arm and check his ankle when the man begins to sing to him.

No. Not sing. Sherlock is serenading him...a Beetles song. A couple hours behind schedule but John can't keep the smile from his face, nor the look of wonder as he watches the full lips of his former flatmate sound out vowels that John Lennon could never manage.

It's impressive and beautiful and the words make him feel entirely too warm. It takes a great deal of strength to actually stand. They've never been exceedingly touchy. John isn't sure what sort of embrace Sherlock might accept now that his libido has been satisfied--

But ultimately, he just does not care.

Mindful of the arm, John tugs Sherlock close -- and lifts himself up on the balls of his feet -- to deliver a sweet, honestly well deserved kiss on his mouth.

Sherlock might have just done the most romantic thing John's ever experienced not coming from himself.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't look at John while he sings the song. It had come to him in the shower as he'd been going over the night before and organising his thoughts around it. It was one of a handful of songs Sherlock realised he knew, and he'd chosen this one specifically because of the parallels between their condition and the lyrics in the song. He won't tell John that's why he'd chosen it, but he won't deny it either.

He hears the sound of John shifting across the room, so he pauses before repeating the chorus to watch his friend approach him. He looks happy. Maybe a touch of pink on his cheeks. Determined to show his gratitude. But it's just a song. One that he'd had to move down by two-fifths in order for his voice to reach the notes comfortably.

The way John's eyes move to Sherlock's mouth tells him what to expect. He leans down without trying to resist to meet John's lips with his own.

"Why did you get eggs?" Sherlock asks when the kiss breaks. Obviously, John got eggs because he'd been in the kitchen when breakfast was served. Sherlock's portion probably came from the pot after everyone else got their fill.

[substituteskull]

Eggs? Oh. John's noticeably impressed by the deduction and tilts his head to the side as he steps back to fetch his boots. "I got eggs because I regularly eat breakfast and I was the first one in the kitchen," John says naturally enough. "You would have likely turned your nose up so...porridge it is," John says, the curve of his lips never falling.

He's no idea why they've waited so long but the feeling of being centred is not one he can deny now. John's had this before, he knows, the honeymoon period is always the best, but it feels better than any he's had before.

John drops onto the edge of his bed to pull on his socks.

"I should get sung to every morning," he says almost wistfully. He prefers it to the violin, if he's honest.

[consulting_freak]

"Who was the chef? Sarah, wasn't it?" Sherlock deduces. There'd been a bit of a black pepper taste as well, and she's the one who's overly fond of adding that particular spice to her cooking.

To Sherlock, there's little that's changed in how he feels toward John. There are a few added curiosities he has, but for the most part John is the same as he's ever been. The smaller man's even in a better mood than he's been in since the first few minutes of meeting up with him on his first day back. A little more stable and seeming like the old John. He won't complain about that, since the old John is the one he'd been trying to come home to all this time.

He doesn't know about things like the honeymoon phase of new relationships and he'd probably scoff if John tried to explain it to him.

"You should give me something to sing about every morning, then," Sherlock comments over his shoulder as he turns his attention back to the cold porridge. He doesn't mean for the phrase to come out sounding so suggestive, but it does and he won't take it back. Having a way to get a nice high regularly without the risk of withdrawal symptoms in the morning sounds like a winning situation to him.

"This is awful," he grumbles over a mouth full of breakfast.

[substituteskull]

"How did-- Yes, Sarah," John agrees. He ought to know better than to ask. Perhaps she breaks the yolks a certain way or gets shell in it -- how Sherlock could taste that, he doesn't know. Maybe he'd just remembered the assignment board. He's about to put on his second sock when the innuendo comes and... John decides just to back up to the meal with Sarah at it's head because he can remember last night all too well and he would very much to give Sherlock that reason every night they're both awake to have it.

He wets his lips, imagining he can taste Sherlock there when all it is is the toothpaste he'd used in the bathroom that morning and nothing else. Pity.

"Well I might have a deduction myself as to why your porridge is terrible," John says, teasing lightly as he checks his shoes for bugs that might have crawled inside. Yes, he's been out of Afghanistan for years and yet he still has his rituals from that arid, rocky country. "If Sarah heard you, and chances are she did, you probably broke her heart."

John's not all that sad about it. Pulling those noises from Sherlock had been one of the finer moments of his life thus far.

"Sorry about that. I'll save you an egg next time the chickens bother to lay any?"

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock just smiles when John is at a complete loss on how he'd made his deduction about the identity of the chef. He likes to keep some things to himself because it keeps an air of mystery about him. It's not directly related to anything important, anyway.

He takes all of five very large bites of his porridge before he can't seem to swallow anymore of it down. The soy crumbles make it taste too salty to someone unused to that much dietary sodium. But, he's not wasting the entire bowl, so he shouldn't annoy too many people by not having all of his breakfast.

"Really?" Sherlock asks when John announces his deduction. Oh, so a romantic rivalry. Are people so petty? Wait, no. He doesn't need to ask that to know the answer.

"She's a minor. And, for God's sake, I'm over twice her age," he says, shaking his head with his eyebrows drawing together and nose lifting. It crinkles the skin there in the centre of his forehead. "And up until last night, I wasn't exactly interested in sharing that sort of activity with anyone."

Will having sex with John make things difficult to keep up the charade of pleasantries so he can keep that lab?

[substituteskull]

"She's a teenager," John says casually. "Most teenagers fancy rockstars are one point in time." After everything John's told this group about Sherlock, he is the only living rockstar this world could well have to offer. Or, at least, Europe. John leans back on his elbows to watch Sherlock make faces at his breakfast. Perhaps adding a bit of sweet would have helped a bit, but it's a little too late now to change the menu. They ought to not eat too heavily any way. They have a great deal of exertion head of them and, let's be honest, running about with large meal in their stomachs isn't going to help in the slightest.

The good mood seems impossible to break, even after he and Sherlock head down the front stairs to the A & E lobby to make the trek across the street. Sherlock with his sword and John, his crowbar with a backup revolver, are equipped to handle most of what may lay inside.

The sentries have not yet made it over to the building yet, and that will certainly be a good thing on their part. John, vigilant but still distracted by Sherlock, nearly misses the telltale scape of feet behind the front door.

He pauses, hand on the door.

"You didn't chain up the back entry did you...?" he asks, exasperated but certainly not angry. His hand tightens on his bludgeon of choice.

[consulting_freak]

As fun as flirting is, as soon as John and Sherlock are outside the safety of their sectioned off home in Bart's, the detective goes into business mode. He spares glances at John only briefly as he scans the area around them for any sign of life. Infected or otherwise. If the disease can be spread to cats, there's a chance it can jump species again. And, he knows at least one of them is on the shit list of at a certain human entity.

When they hesitate at the door, Sherlock glances at his friend and thinks back to the day before whn he'd come here. He'd been in such a bad way after everything was said and done that it takes a moment to actually remember.

"I left the patient room door open. There were no chains in the monitoring corridor, so I left that as it is. I didn't chain up the main back entrance, but I also didn't open any of the other patient rooms. The smell and noise might have attracted others, but only if there were some nesting nearby," Sherlock explains, being as thorough as he can and also as quiet as he can.

His grip shifts on the hilt of his sword and he presses his back against the wall next to the door. Hopefully the shuffling inside is the same as he'd heard before. Coming from the patient rooms where it's nice, cosy, and safe for them. If not, he'll go point and take out or distract any infected. Let's face it, he's got better reflexes that John even with his injuries, and John's skills lie with crack shooting. A good combination as long as John doesn't get it into his head to be overprotective.

[substituteskull]

John cared for many people in his life, and though he cared for Sherlock like no other -- song be damned -- he has no intention of being over protective. The battlefield slips back in to his mindset as he readgusts the grip on the crowbar. It's dark here, but darkness doesn't matter. They can't see any better than he can. It's noise and scent that attracts them more than anything else. Scent is not something they can mask. He's tried, but nothing works. Noise-- Well, it hasn't heard them yet.

A glance to Sherlock signals that he's ready and the muscles of his legs tighten as he rocks back on the heels of his feet to yank open the door.

He won't fight Sherlock for taking the lead. He knows his limitations. Height, shorter limbs -- He's better as a clean up crew than most. With four bullets in his gun, he'd rather not use them if possible either.

Scant light filters through grimy, gummed up windows as three people, none of whom he knows, turn to look in their direction. Teeth bare with infection and their shambling turns to mindless rage focused in their direction.

Sherlock can get two easily. John is already planning on whacking the third. The nameless ones don't get the care that his friends did, set in rooms around the central corridor. Perhaps that's cold. Cold is just something you have to accept during war.

[consulting_freak]

There's a moment as he's standing against the wall and waiting for John to open the door that the thought of these pitiful creatures still having some of their humanity and cognitive function threatens to paralyse him. All of this time, he'd been so sure that he was killing mindless creatures no more human than a rabid dog.

Maybe it makes him soft. (Funny how that works out, isn't it?)

But, it's an Us versus Them situation. If there were only one infected waiting for them, he could have disabled it and ushered it into a locked area with the others. But three means fighting - and killing - is not optional.

Sherlock lures the fastest infected to the side, using her charging speed against her as he easily throws her onto her back. The sword makes a clean strike across the second creature's neck and it sends the elderly man into a staggering daze before he finally falls. He severs the first creature's head while she tries to lunge at his ankle.

One glance over at John tells him that his friend is making clean work of the last of the aggressors.

There's a sound down the corridor that sounds an awful lot like approaching shuffling. Just one more creature, this one slower than the rest. A dragging sound sends his brain right back to the day before when he'd fought off Mycroft. And Sherlock completely freezes at hearing it, even though the creature that rounds the corner is a child with festering legs dragging herself with her hands across the floor.

[substituteskull]

There is no easy way to deal with the children that have been infected and John needs to dig into the places he never wants to be again to muster up the courage for it. He waits for a moment to see if Sherlock will take a step towards the girl, but he doesn't. In fact, he seems almost shell shocked to see her.

John is a smart man -- Sherlock would want his company far less if he was not -- but he doesn't equate the girl's dragging leg for the trauma he'd put up with the afternoon before. There's no snap, no 'ah-ha' moment.

And yet...and yet Sherlock must have done this before. Must have run across infected children. Does this have to do with John's assertion about their life signs?

John lowers his crow bar and checks that his arm guards are strapped down before he strides passed Sherlock.

They need a mobile infected to draw out the parasites, right? Well, children are easier to deal with and wrangle than the larger ones. From the sounds of it, she's the last anyhow.

[consulting_freak]

It's John walking by his side that snaps him out of his momentary paralysis. Sherlock watches the back of his friend's head as he continues onward. He pushes the door behind them almost closed with the back of his foot - this way, they will hear it in case there are others lurking in the shadows that might become alerted to their presence and decide to investigate.

Now that the girl is subdued, he's no longer reminded of Mycroft. He won't talk about it unless asked specifically. He's not the type to seek counselling and therapy.

He slips his hand into his pocket and retrieves his freshly made tool pack. A glass vial for the sample. A jaw brace to prevent biting, pliers, a long scalpel, and a pipette with a broad opening. Wide enough to get the parasites in without trouble.

"Pull her head back," Sherlock instructs, setting his tools down and picking up the brace first. Once he's got her mouth open, he can worry about the rest.